A pox on those who better know Than letting Mother drift so low, Those spirits bright with hands of skill Who have the wit but lack the will! And those who sometimes take on airs And say that others do not care And those whose lives are left to coast And borrow other's words to post. Those Murphys, Flynns, and lowly Flanagans Who pester Mom with such shenanigans Are not deserving, by my lights, To call themselves proud MOABites And I am certain taht 't is true That should the noble King Khandu Discover now what dross has grown Around the MOAB's soaring stones, What damp has muffled now her drum, And to what fate poor Mom has come, I'm certain he would lose his head, ANd maybe start another thread! Then where would we be? Where would we write? What would we do, alone at night? I prithee, therefore, mend your ways, And surface from your sleepy daze, And write BS, both good and fair To show the MOAB that you care; Post once, post twice! And do not stop, Until our Mom is back on top!

Plagiarize! Remember why the good Lord made your eyes, And plagiarize, plagiarize, plagiarize!

(Tom Lehrer)

Some day, in the pre-dawn dark, when the rest of the world is asleep, yon Rapaire will be rudely awoken by a loud knock on his door.

There will be no trial, nor jury. The sentencing will be swift, the punishment brutal and ugly.

Oh, I know, it's not his fault. There are psychological reasons; his brain overflows with others' words, and he must relieve the pressure somehow. It's the price of serving in the Great Librarian Army, the invisible but mighty force that stands like a bulwark between America and the encroaching forces of illiteracy and stupidity. A slipping, decaying bulwark, perhaps, but a bulwark still. An occupational hazard, a sacrifice for the Greater Good of Man. Rapaire is an instrument of Literacy and a simple vessel for Knowledge, and if the vessel overflows and its contents occasionaly stain the carpet or ruin the electronics, how small a price for the glory of his larger mission?

Mom! You're alone and palely loitering among the sedge! Am I the only one who cares???? Let me help you get back, get back to where you once belonged. That's it...here's a nice cup of tea, just as you like it, with honey and lemon and a drop of whisky to keep away the dew. And do try one of these raspberry scones; I made them myself just for you.

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me, And what can be the use of him is more than I can see. He is very, very like me, from the heels up to the head; And I see him jump before me, and it's him who wets the bed.

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow - Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow; For he sometimes shoots up taller, like an india-rubber ball, And he sometimes gets so doggone drunk I can't find him at all!

He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play, And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way. He stays so close beside me, he's a coward you can see; I'd like to stick to Kathy, tho', like shadow sticks to me!

One morning, very early, before the sun was up, I 'rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup; But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy head, Had stayed at home behind me and I found him later, dead.

ANd now the count is sixteen five! Yon Stilly rode 'em hard, To ramp up such a slough of posts, While sitting in her yard. But cooly, cooly made her bid, And cooly played her hand, And the sons of Mom smile with aplomb -- They're in for seventeen grand.

Oh the souls are strange on the MOAB range, Where the skies run high and far, And you never know where you're gonna go Hitched up to the MOAB star. But throw misgivings to the past, And for the future, stand; Get a feeling for the Great Thread wheeling West past seventeen grand.

Maybe bold Rapaire will take her there, With his borrowed rhymes and punctures! Or perhaps old Bunn will be the one, To dive in at the vital juncture. It could be some star from a corner bar, Or a road-worn carny hand. But whoever 'tis, just be sure of this: She's heading for seventeen grand.

(He leans back in his chair and looks out the window at the budding trees contrasting with the snow-clad mountains and pours himself another cup of coffee [Lodge Blend, from Heritage Coffee Company in Juneau, Alaska}).

gee willikers - that's what we do in MAY - when we can (almost) count on the temperature staying above 32 degrees F. We won't mention the infamous Mother's Day Blizzard, or the not infrequent killing frosts that we have been known to get in May.

Haven't seen hide nor hair of any of our *local* groundhogs yet so far this year...and given the snowcover their tracks would be highly visible not to mention their holes if they burrowed up through the snow. And we normally have a LOT of groundhogs.

Hi there MOM! We had another snow day this week - this one more due to wind and chill factor and blowing snow and white outs then actual snowfall - but I ended up staying at a niece's much closer to work then home- and her husband ended up staying at his brother-in-laws in my hometoown...so we at least kept the world balanced....because they went and closed the roads. Since it probably would have taken four or more hours to get home anyway, I much more enjoyed snuggling with the great nieces. That was the night before the actual snow day...

it still took an extra hour after the storm warnings came down to drive home yesterday - and I went back to sleep; such a great wintertime activity, sleep.

have to w*rk today though. yuck. Why can't I get paid for *NOT* working? That would be much more fun.

At sixteen-four and eight-six The watchers came alive. "If they post fourteen times, this thread Will get to sixteen five!!" The MOABITES they smiled, they laughed, It saw no contest there; They knew that fourteen posts were like The wafting of a hair. The light would twinkle once, and then The count would roll around. There was no doubt a-haunting them; They stood on certain ground. And as the numbers trickled in, The media gasped and roared, First one--a lonely poem -- came in, Then two, then three -- then four. We knew the outcome warn't in doubt, We knew how lay the land. We knew we'd see sixteen-five laid out, And we'd head fer seventeen grand.

Well, I think there have been some examples of premature stamina in this very thread, Stilly! There ahe been, for example, assertions of being God and being able to outwrassle alligators and out dance Mike Fink and outrun the wind. It is a self-induced state of apparent psychological strength and ability to endure long exertion down a path that was totally fictitious in the first place. A puffing up, preparatory to engaging a battle that was never going to happen. A splattering of imaginary testosterone, if you will...

I only post to threads to which Amos has posted first. Amos is my beacon, my guiding light, the lighthouse which prevents me from crashing upon the rocks and shoals, my leader, my hope, the star by which I navigate. There is no one like Amos, who watches over me and insures that I follow in the Paths of Righteousness and Goodness all the days of my life.

Either that or the thread must be interesting. I'm not all that interested in topics like "The US Being Awful To Iraqis" or "Bush Is A Lying Wuss" or "The US, UK, EU and Canada Suck Ditch Water and the Aussies Stink Too."

I am really glad you finally got to say what you really feel, Rapaire...

I said nice things about Amos in another thread today. And you know what, Mom? Amos sure doesn't steal much for such a nice guy. And when he's sober he's...well, when he's sober he's not drunk! When I met him I noticed that he doesn't play with himself much in public anymore, either. But on that other thread I said even nicer things about him.

Our world has shifted today! Gluon, come curl up and stay put a while, and think about your friend Jean Baudrillard. Perhaps Mickey Mouse and his Disney friends also should pull up a footstool and thin about all they owe to Jean.

French philosopher Jean Baudrillard dies

The Associated Press Tuesday, March 6, 2007

PARIS: French philosopher Jean Baudrillard, a social theorist known for his provocative commentaries on consumerism, excess and what he said was the disappearance of reality, died Tuesday, his publishing house said. He was 77.

Baudrillard died at his home in Paris, said Michel Delorme of the Galilee publishing house. He died after a "long illness," Delorme said, a term that in France most often means cancer.

The two men had worked together since the publication in 1977, when "Oublier Foucault" (Forget Foucault) was published, one of some 30 books by Baudrillard, Delorme said by telephone.

Among his last published books was "Cool Memories V," in 2005.

Baudrillard, a sociologist by training, is perhaps best known for his concepts of "hyperreality" and "simulation."

"We lose a great creator," Education Minister Gilles de Robien said. "Jean Baudrillard was one of the great figures of French sociological thought."

Born in June 20, 1979, in Reims, west of Paris, Baudrillard, the son of civil servants, began a long teaching career instructing high school students in German. After receiving a doctorate in sociology, he taught at the University of Paris in Nanterre.

I'm thinking of the day my mother decided to have a group of professional cleaners come into the house and wash down the walls and ceiling in the kitchen. We had high gloss enamel, and she was a heavy smoker. It was as good as any of those commercials where they wipe a path through the grime--the paint under the smoke was many shades lighter than the sepia colored walls we'd been looking at for years. With each pass of the sponge with heavy-duty cleaner and the room lightened. But to taste it? Uggg.

The polar cow I've never seen Subsists on sautéed aubergine, And feeds his yen for deeper feeling, By licking old library ceilings. Now of these myths, is born a fusion, Which to my heart brings harsh contusion, And to mine 'umble friends, Confusion.

Mom, last night at fencing I was in three bouts. I lost two of them, so I would have had 13 holes in me if we would have been using pointy swords instead of blunted epees. I won the last one 5-3, but the lost the other first two 3-5 and 4-5. All of my inside liquids would have leaked out, Mom, and made a real mess on the gym floor and they probably would have made me clean it up before I went to the hospital or the funeral home. Back in the Old Days I understand that corks were required equipment in your fencing bag.

Nowadays we barely have a first aid kit.

'Tis not as deep as a well nor as wide as a church door, but 'twil serve, 'twil serve. Ask for me tomorrow and you will find me a grave man.